Dear Uterus: You Are a Murderous Bastard

In my head, murderous bastard just isn’t right. I mean, certainly there are more eloquent ways to express my hatred of your serial killing, your incompetence when nurturing a fertilized ovum, and your obvious disdain for human life. But nothing comes, so murderous bastard it is.

In days past, I looked down at women who were in the place I now find myself. I thought how very sad it must be to be them. How very unfortunate not to make lemonade out of the lemons so viciously hurled at us in the forms of infertility, miscarriage and neonatal death. But today I think lemonade is overrated. And anger? It’s pretty liberating.

I’ve always been the one who sought out the right thing and hiked the high road. And I’ve prided myself on the fact that even in the most soul searing of circumstances, I haven’t lost my shit. I guess I thought that keeping myself together meant success, but what it really meant was an excuse not to feel as deeply as one needs in order to heal. Because something happens when a thing or person is broken, there are shards that go missing which forever change the shape of the traumatized vessel. And you realize, then and there, that wholeness takes on an entirely different meaning.

You, dear uterus, have one job to do in your miserable, pear-shaped life and that is to oversee the development of an embryo and fetus. Sadly, you have failed three heartbreaking times. In any other circumstance, you would have received a sincere come to Jesus, been put on leave, or been relieved of your duties. Because obviously, if you can’t perform, what are you really worth? But I held on, hoping you’d redeem yourself. Hoping that I wouldn’t have to hate you the way I have and do now.

After baby loss number 3, I sat as judge and jury. It would have been easy for me to give you death. I mean, you meet the basic requirements of a serial killer, don’t you: “someone who murders more than three victims one at a time in a relatively short interval”? I thought of what it’d be like to push the button that sent the needle into your arm. But drifting off to sleep never to wake was too good for you. You needed hard time. You needed to realize what your neglect caused. And who isn’t here because of it.

I was all too happy to lead you to the cell where you’d be left to think on your offenses. And when I locked you inside and swallowed the key I thought everything had been made right: you were where you should be and I had a second chance. What I didn’t realize was that since that day, I’ve been locked inside that cell with you. I’ve been my own prisoner. And I’ve been yours, as well.

Life gets in the way of life sometimes. It certainly has in my case. I did what I was supposed to: I fell in love, got married and tried to start a family. I played by the rules, but I didn’t win any jackpot in the form of sweet-smelling lumps of flesh whose giggles are like jumper cables to the heart. I didn’t win anything short of loss and heartache. And I’ve felt angry about that. I have.

I feel the anger rise when I read another story of an unwanted child who was beaten, neglected or murdered. I feel it when I meet women who don’t question that their pregnancies will be successful, who don’t know what I know. I feel it when I’m accused of being selfish when refusing to watch a video of a friend’s newborn or when I can’t drag myself to another baby shower. I feel it when I’m the only non-mother in a circle of women complaining about what a bitch motherhood is. I feel it nearly every day.

Today is laced with thoughts of Jasmine French and the film Blue Jasmine. In it she declares, “…there’s only so many traumas a person can withstand until they take to the streets and start screaming.” This is me taking to the streets. This is me screaming. This is me:

Broken. Barren. Beyond.

I don’t know what the future holds, dear uterus, but if you ever find yourself in a position to hold life again, would you please hold it?

Because it’d be nice not to hate you anymore.

It really would.

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I'm a new parent, aspiring novelist, and an admirer of those "in the arena". In truth, dear reader, I'm unsure what this space will become, but I hope you'll join me as we discover its heartbeat together.

Oh Dani. I feel conflicted in saying this piece rocks. Pained that you have to feel this at all, and as a fellow infertile proud of the authentic place where you stand.

Though I would never want to pull anyone from this inspiring, though undeniably rugged, place of truth, I do hope you find a scrap of solace in that so many others share these emotions of anger and betrayal, provoked by similar triggers.

My own personal loathing seems to have been directed at nature and the universe, and towards the fact that I’m often not even sure what to be angry at. Maybe you’ve inspired me to write about it, we’ll see.

I agree with you – those who care to exist on the fringes of their own experiences can make all of the lemonade they want. Surrendering to the truth of traumatic experiences is bold.

Sarah, I’m so sorry to hear that you’re in this place. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. Ever. This piece was my feeble attempt to write myself out of my anger. And while I’m still one foot in, I feel much better knowing that I allowed myself to say the things I feel.

Pain certainly isn’t glorious and as much as we’d like to put a positive spin on things, the gripping reality is that grief and loss are messy and ugly. Sure there are moments when we feel we’re above or beyond, but grief has never been nor will ever be linear. There is always something that serves as the rusty hook of memory and, before we know it, we’re back there, praying for heart amnesia. And hoping for things to be different.

One day…I hope they will be.

With heart,
Dani

P.S. I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to reach out earlier and missed being included in your NIAW post. Thank you for wanting to include me though…I’m touched.

I’m envious of people (mostly men) who can express anger freely without taking a guilt trip. It’s a feeling just like any other and suppressing my anger has caused me a world of hurt. For me, anger is often about an underlying fear and if I keep myself from going there it’s because I don’t want to face my fears. It’s liberating to get pissed off and to express our outrage at the incomprehensible, ridiculous and terrifying things that happen in our lives. And resilient people like us, Dani, understand that just because we’re angry it doesn’t mean we don’t love. In fact, I get angriest at those I love (even my body parts). When I read this post, I can so clearly see the loving soul that is you. This is about so much more than anger – it’s about the process of accepting the broken pieces of our vessel because how it looks is so often out of our control. That makes me mad too. xxxooo

Karen…sweetie you freaking nailed it! I have railed at my bestie over all sorts of things, and that is me so f-ing angry and needing to get it out. It’s my prayer that you, Dani, find agency in Karen’s words…Lord knows you have earned it, paid in full every tear cried and every tear died.

Blessings to you both…neither of you can fathom the blessings you are to me, the examples, the encouragement, and the inspiration.

My guess is because we’re conditioned, especially women, from day one that our emotions are an inconvenience to others.

Our emotional guts are such bastians of truth and authenticity, that’s why it’s the first power center to get trampled on by anyone coming from a place of fear. So strange that even though apologizing for the expression of our emotions is a violation of self, it’s such a battle NOT to. I feel this battle every day.

“And resilient people like us, Dani, understand that just because we’re angry it doesn’t mean we don’t love.”

You know, I grew up being told to put on a happy face. Anger (and emotion) was always the enemy. So, for the longest time, I didn’t have a clue what I felt when I felt it because my emotions were always on auto-pilot (the pilot being a smiling shell of a person, of course).

When I experienced each miscarriage, anger was the last thing that came. Guilt visited first and took up residence in my soul. Then came worthlessness, followed by self-loathing. But anger?? It was really a shooting star of nothingness, here and gone so quickly that I couldn’t even classify it as such.

I guess I’ve always (secretly) equated anger with weakness and I’ve never wanted to be weak. Now though…I realize that everything has its season. Even anger.

Thank you for reminding me that anger doesn’t negate the depths of my love for my babies. If anything, it confirms it. It does.

Thank you for reading, Justine. I know you have suffered your own pain, just as searing, and have found some amount of solace on the other side. I hope to do the same, when that season arrives. For now though, I’m in the muck of this Season, trying to meet it head-on with some amount of grace and authenticity.

Beautifully heartbreaking.
As you know, I get the frustration and the hurt that results from knowing your body isn’t doing the one thing it should – instead of giving life, my uterus also takes it.
Love to you Dani. I hope one day, whatever your future holds, you are able to repair your relationship with your body. I’m working hard on that now, but I’m still struggling.

I think it’s a constant struggle. Recently, I have had fleeting thoughts of how I’ll feel once I’m officially past child-bearing age. There will finally be a period at the end of a heartbreaking run-on sentence of loss and trauma. But will there be a sense of relief??

You pose an interesting thought – will there ever be a sense of relief post child-bearing years? I don’t know, I hope so. Amongst many emotions, I know turning to adoption has given me the space to exhale and almost breath a sense of relief – child bearing is now off my shoulders.

I’m so glad to hear that, sweetie. We haven’t quite made it there (and honestly, I don’t know that we will), but it brings me hope that those I care for (and know this pain) have found a sense of peace.

There is a time for screaming in the streets. You have definitely earned the right. And through your gift of words, you are screaming for so many who have not given voice to their anger.

I am glad that, even as you shake your fist at the incomprehensible miscarriage of justice (when I re-read what I’d written I started to delete that word, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?), in the end, you embrace all of who you are. All the shards and brokenness, the voids, and the anger.

Far worse would be to exist in a grey, unreal world of covert feelings and a shallow heartbeat.

Wholeness has an entirely different shape from what we expect, especially if we walk through the valley and discover holiness.

If I could, I would sit in silence with you, until your anger is spent, and you are ready for more tears. And I would cry with you until your tears are spent. And I would hold you until you shudder and straighten and dare to face another day.

I truly hear your anguish and the grief that comes from stuffing down our deepest heartache in an effort to cope and survive a broken heart from pregnancy and infant loss. Since I found out last summer that I lack the genes required for the immune system to recognize an embryo as not-self such that my uterus should never – without outrageously expensive, allegedly risky medications – be triggered to protect and preserve a pregnancy, I have struggled to reconcile what this means to me. I recognize my privilege in having been able to bypass the defects in my genes, my immune system and my uterus with those costly and risky drugs. But coming to terms with those defects is something I still have not mastered. I have opted only recently to stop warring against what I cannot change – and surprisingly my immune system has been less combative since my doing so – but doing so was only possible after I was told that the complications in this hard-won pregnancy could result in the need to remove my uterus to save my life. I never anticipated rolling the dice to result in yet another chance to question my failure as a woman. After all, it is hard not to go to that place when we have serial-killer wombs.

At a personal level, I am just so sorry for your losses and deeply wish that this cycle ends for you not only with a successful pregnancy but with some means of making peace with your body and the heartache it has created.

Thank you for sharing where you’re at and where you’ve been. I will keep you and your baby in my thoughts as you approach full term. And thank you for your kindness and concern. It’s always such a blessing to know that one isn’t alone…especially when the soul haze sets in.

Those broken shards, *scream*
those brittle, bright blasted shards
jagged and hungry and so shockingly absent.

They yawn with full belly and ravenous soul
for more death, more hurt, more *unlife*
but I have them in my sights, now.

I shall throw me down on my sister’s wounds
I shall bleed my heart dry with balm from Gilead
and I shall cry in constant consolation from her inward parts

while our Strong Soldier Sisters Stand round about us
outside and ringed in winged-woman-might
and tender hearts so knit, so tight.

And in your death place I find life transcendent
and in my own your laugh rings so resplendant
we will survive our screams, our tears, our grief

and rest together in Mama’s Sweet Relief.

Loving you with all heart, Sister mine
praying for you and your strong beloved the glories and the pains of parenthood
and that I could ever hold your arms up as if you were Moses of old
and time would stand still for us all to celebrate.

My sweet friend, I feel as though anything which could be said, has been said by those who were here before me. But I am here, and I stand, hands raised in acknowledgement of your pain and your loss, and your love.

Sometimes our bodies betray us in cruel unexpected ways. The emotions we feel; the anger we express; the sense of that betrayal are very real and personal. Some losses manifest themselves repeatedly, and coming tona place of reconciliation seems nigh impossible. Although we can love you and want you to heal, Dani, your journey belongs to you. Always remember though, we are here to walk with you and share our heaviest burdens with caring hearts.

“As Rumi, the Sufi poet, says, ‘The cure for pain is in the pain.’ Attempting to reconcile before we’ve done the work of healing discounts the fact that grief and anger are as essential to the reconciliation process as compassion and love.”

My journey does belong to me. But I don’t have to go it alone. I don’t.

Yes, I think healing comes only after we acknowledge the loss, and it’s often difficult to admit the depth of anger or sorrow we feel. Getting to the bottom of those emotions is key to learning to live a meaningful life in spite of them.

Voids don’t disappear, but I’ve lived long enough to know unexpected blessings will come to you as they have to me.

Dani, you are brave and amazing. Thank you for being so true and raw with your anger, disappointment and sadness. I know I write a lot about my three girls; what I’ve never written about is the miscarriage I had before having the third. Our stories are different, but my heart is threaded to yours and that pain you carry. Sending you love, hugs and faith. xo

Dani, what a beautiful yet difficult post you wrote. I cannot comprehend your pain of loss, but my heart does break for you. Your words were so powerful and came from deep within. You are an inspiration and God definitely is using you to help others. Your journey is not over. Many prayers and hugs..

Dani, I cannot imagine the pain and anger you must have felt in order to have these words on your heart. It breaks my heart to read these words regardless of how beautifully they are written. Hugs to you.

Someone recently remarked on me being angry. My instant response was, “I’m not angry!” And I really thought it was true. The very next day I totally lost it- I screamed and yelled, ranted and raved, vented. I was so freaking angry at the very thing that I had been so sure I wasn’t the day before.

Why is it so hard for us to be angry? Well, my very first thought upon reading your post was to say that it’s okay to be angry. You can feel however you feel. Feel it. Deal with it. Don’t try to fight it or else it does end up taking you over. The truth is that it sucks when you don’t even know you feel the way you do.

I completely agree with this, Kat. For the longest time, I didn’t know how or what I felt. Then I felt ashamed for not dealing with the feelings I had more gracefully. Now, I’ve come to realize that being human is messy and things can’t’ always be tied up and off with satin ribbons and perfectly coiffed words. Sometimes you need to dive into the murky waters and know that the way through the pain is feeling it…even when you think you can’t.

momsranting

Thanks for sharing this, I admire how you can express yourself so well. I want to hate your bastard uterus too, but I’m crossing my fingers that it will get things right for you. Sending prayers your way.

Kris

Dani, thank you for sharing your experience. You have expressed yourself amazingly, heartbreakingly, and, I’m sure, relatably well.
It obviously won’t make the pain go away, but a benefit of sharing such harrowing experiences is that someone reading about them may feel a little less alone in their battles, a little more understood.
I’m so sorry you’ve had to go through all this. Living through a perpetual grieving process can be excruciating, and anger is a major part of it that can’t just be bypassed. So, as strange as it may sound, I’m glad that you are actually Feeling and Expressing your anger.
Again, Thank You for sharing your experience. Your authenticity, courage, and honesty are appreciated and amazing.
Much love!

Hi Dani – Sarah from Infertility Honesty here. I wanted to include “Dear Uterus, You’re a Murderous Bastard” in a linked list of posts I admire that will be in my post for National Infertility Awareness Week. Given the extra sensitive nature of the material, I’ll wait to hear from you before including it, and of course no problem if you’d rather not. Take Care – Sarah

mamak10

I’m so sorry. 😦 I wish there were words to make it all better and to take the pain away and to make it possible to have a child of your own. I’m so sorry. I hate miscarriage and loss. I hate that there are so many women who have to go through it, and many alone or quietly. Praying for you!

Dear Dani – I’m in tears. Wow. It brings back so many ugly memories. I hate that you find yourself in this place but I’m glad you are releasing the anger. Holding it in doesn’t do you any good. Rage, kick, scream, punch, yell, let it all out. Success isn’t measured in how well we hold our shit together (like you said), success comes from being true to yourself, being authentic, and allowing yourself to feel it all. It’s ok to take the walls down and crumble to the floor because you know what? It F-ing SUCKS!!! And it’s not fair! And it hurts! And it’s crazy-making! And you DON’T have to go to another flippin’ baby shower! And you don’t owe anyone any explanations for why you don’t want to see their newborn’s tiny F-ing feet or even come a mile within a baby! You are NOT selfish and don’t ever let anyone make you feel that way! You are doing what you need to take care of YOU and THAT is called self-nurturing and self-loving, NOT selfish. I’m here for you, Dani. You’re in my heart. And for the record – I’m pissed at your uterus too. Bastard!

Dani, you have amazing way with words. I wish you didn’t have the experience the heartache, anger, and despair for recurrent pregnancy loss. It’s beyond unfair. You are far from selfish. This journey of infertility combined with miscarriages is a hard road that leaves us broken, even if we make it to the other side. So much love and hope for you. ❤

Thank you so much for this, Courtney. I know you speak and write from a place of Knowing and I feel the weight of that knowing with you. There is brokenness, yes, but I am trying to collect the shards of soul and dreams not made true and breathe into that shape…my new shape…my True shape. Somehow there is some peace in that.

Sara

I hear you. Loud and clear. You are screaming my same scream. I call mine my homicidal uterus. It’s taken 3 babies in the second trimester and just spit them right out. Healthy and alive and for no reason at all it just ejects them too early. And here I am pregnant again and entering the dreaded second trimester where I will beg and plead with this homicidal uterus to let me keep this one. Yet, I know it’s not up to me in the end. Because lord knows if it were, none of us would be here talking about this. So from my homicidal uterus to your murderous bastard, here’s to hoping we conquer these demons some day…whatever that turns out to mean!